


Women & Men. Soldiers & Heroes. Fools & Corpses.

by ChurchAndDestroy



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Action & Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Class Issues, Dark Fantasy, Ensemble Cast, Gay Character, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sex, Interpersonal Conflict, Lesbian Character, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Novelization (kinda), POV Alternating, Religious Conflict, Team Bonding, Trans Female Character, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-08 13:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15931859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChurchAndDestroy/pseuds/ChurchAndDestroy
Summary: Yellowed advertisements scattered across the realms read: "The Walpole Estate is being overrun, and the threat continues to grow. Soldiers and outlaws needed to beat back the scourge. Pays weekly. Inquire at the hamlet of Ratcliffe. WARNING: Not for the faint of heart or foolhardy." This last clause would prove to be an understatement if there ever was one.A long-form adaptation of the Darkest Dungeon story based on my playthrough, grounded on character relationships, worldbuilding, and the ugly action of battle.





	1. Week 1: The Old Road.

_Ruin has come to our family. You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial, gazing proudly from its stoic perch above the moor. I lived all my years in that ancient, rumor shadowed manor, fattened by decadence and luxury. And yet, I began to tire of conventional extravagance. Singular, unsettling tales suggested the mansion itself was a gateway to some fabulous and un-namable power. With relic and ritual, I bent every effort towards the excavation and recovery of those long buried secrets, exhausting what remained of our family fortune on swarthy workmen and sturdy shovels._

_At last, in the salt-soaked crags beneath the lowest foundations, we unearthed that damnable portal and antediluvian evil. Our every step unsettled the ancient earth, but we were in a realm of death, and madness! In the end, I alone fled laughing and wailing through those blackened arcades of antiquity, until consciousness failed me._

_You remember our venerable house, opulent and imperial. It is a festering abomination! I beg you, return home, claim your birthright, and deliver our family from the ravenous clutching shadows of the darkest dungeon._

_You will arrive along the old road. It winds with a troubling, serpent-like suggestion through the corrupted countryside. Leading only, I fear, to ever more tenebrous places. There is a sickness in the ancient pitted cobbles of the old road, and on its writhing path you will face viciousness, violence, and perhaps other damnably transcendent terrors. So steel yourself and remember: there can be no bravery without madness. The old road will take you to hell, but in that gaping abyss, we will find our redemption._

“He’s having a laugh, then?” asked the highwayman, who had barely spoken two words during the whole journey. Reynauld, whose shoulders had been slumping further and further as their new employer read aloud the letter from his grandfather, cast a disapproving look towards his compatriot. They had asked for greater details on the job that they had taken, but now...it seemed regrettable. The two of them were seated beside one another and across from their patron, a stout young man clad in darkness, as their carriage clattered across the dirt and stones through the old wood. Were it not for the dim orange candle mounted above them and the dipping sun that occasionally flitted through the carriage's curtain, he would be swallowed up by the blackness. His dark-brown hair was fading to grey already, and his dress was more appropriate for an up-and-coming businessman than a descendant of one of the most prestigious families in the country. Of course, the Walpoles had fallen hard in the years since the young one’s father died, all the locals were aware of that. The son had gone off to the city, seeking independence from the aristocratic old ways and the construction of an independent fortune, while the grandfather stayed huddled up in the estate, scarcely heard from except the occasional rumors of decadence and degeneracy festering . Until now. These rumors that Reynauld had heard before...now they seemed to be the least of the trouble with this family.

“I don’t believe so,” replied the young Walpole. “He had a wry sense of humor but it was not…this. No. I believe something is terribly wrong at my old family home, and the village surrounding it as well. I wrote a letter to the old caretaker to notify him of our arrival; when he replied, most of it was incomprehensible – lots of talk about the local flora and fauna and how it was overtaking the village, pigs and fish and plants. But he seemed rather insistent that I return home at once; he claims that my grandfather left behind quite a few books and letters that might prove useful in dealing with…whatever it is he stirred up.” Outside, Reynauld heard the mad cackle of the carriage-driver as they went over a particularly nasty bump, and shuddered, gripping his sword instinctively.

Dismas snorted. “Fine piece of work, your granddad. So much for aristocracy of the soul,” he said, shaking his head. The carriage jostled and rattled as it went along the old road, creaking over the uneven earth. “And speaking of nutters, where’d you find our driver? I swear he’s got a mind to send us into a ditch or crash us into a tree…” As if on cue the carriage seemed to soar over a bump and Dismas swore, while Reynauld gripped his weapon and pack tightly to keep them from flying about the cabin. Walpole seemed unperturbed, instead letting his brown eyes flicker across his new hires, as they settled back down to patchy ground.

They were an odd couple, Dismas and Reynauld. After his grandfather’s letter arrived and he’d spent some time confirming its veracity, Walpole had put out advertisements for bodyguards, and these two were the best and most readily available candidates. Also the cheapest, which was a more important factor. Reynauld…he had heard the name before, and upon investigation learned that it was indeed the very same Reynauld who had led the charge against purportedly barbarian forces along the border. Hundreds slain and even more captured in the course of protecting the Light-Keep from the pagans. Yet in this carriage ride he did not seem a zealot, but a gentle giant, his square face framed by a well-kempt brown beard. He was wearing a suit of full plate armor that looked as though it had seen better days, and his sword looked slightly dull; only his yellow-and-blue tabard, emblazoned with a cross of the Light, was fresh. But the story behind his time in the Crusade of the Flame had been enough to convince Walpole that this was his man. Yet when asked why he was no longer with the Crusade, he had side-stepped the question. Good. The more unattached and hell-bent on atonement – in short, the more predisposed to focusing on the job’s success – the better.

And then there was Dismas. He’d had his reservations about hiring a vagabond, but Dismas swore he was clean, and not a coward. “I fear neither the hangman nor the reaper any longer” had been his exact words. That alone would not have swayed him, but then he saw the man shoot – it was a wonder to behold. The fidgety little fellow had a crop of black hair and nervous eyes and his hands rarely left his pockets without motive. A flintlock pistol on one hip, a gleaming dagger on the other, and a red neckerchief wrapped around his neck, he was dressed quite snugly despite the late summer heat.

Another bump, and another cackle, and then suddenly a horse’s whinny. “What’s happening?” Reynauld boomed, starting to stand up to slide open the compartment to speak to the driver, when suddenly there was a crash and snap and the carriage seemed to give out from underneath them. The horses let out a piercing whinny as they skidded to a halt, and the trio bounced around the cabin, trying to keep their grip, feeling their skulls clatter against the wood. It seemed to go on forever but at last there was a moment of silence and respite, as the carriage lay in a heap around them.

“Ugh…I told you that driver was no good,” Dismas snarked, rising up, giving a hand to his new employer. “You think we’ll be alright walking from here?” He heard another cackle from outside, the driver calling out, “Yes, the wood, it sings to-“ before a sudden silence settled over the area; the sounds of fluttering birds and leaves had dissipated, and the horse’s shrieks seemed to vanish.

With the carriage lying on its side, Dismas reached up with his flintlock and bashed out the remains of the glass window, clearing a passageway for him to climb out. “Oi, you alright, driver?” he said, poking his head out. The sight that greeted him was a swarthy man clad in green, rising from his knees, a filthy rust-coated blade in one hand, the other buried in the neck of the poor driver. The two horses were nowhere to be seen, vanished into the gnarled ash trees - their reins probably cut by either the crash or the fiend.

At the sound of speech, the brigand’s beady eyes flashed to Dismas and narrowed. “That’s close enough, mate,” he barked, beckoning with his free hand, covered in grime and soot. “I’ll be having you lot’s purses, c’mon, then. Toss it here and you won’t end up like this poor blighter…”

Walpole was huddled in the corner and couldn’t see the highwayman’s reaction, but he did see Dismas beckon to Reynauld with two fingers. “Alright, I’ll hand them up to you,” he said in a nervous tone, before pulling his flintlock quickly and firing. The shot caught the bandit by surprise and in the shoulder, and Dismas was out in a flash, already prepping his next shot. Reynauld, too heavy to climb out, kicked a steel-toed boot through the wood, unsheathing his longsword and pulling down the visor of his close helm. The two flanked their opponent as their employer peered through the shattered wooden frame of the carriage, watching them weave around the brigand.

The robber had staggered back and fallen to the ground beside the dead carriage driver, his cloak darkening from blood. Dismas paced quickly towards his prey and spat as he prepared to fire again. "Amateur," he sneered, and then let out a wheezing gasp as he was caught across the belly with the second blade, the one that had been the driver’s executioner. Slumped over in shock, his kerchief lowered, Dismas slid his hand to his stomach and fixed his gaze madly on his foe, teeth grinding together in a fury.

But as the brigand climbed to his feet, grinning manically, there came the thunder of the crusader. “Thou art judged,” roared Reynauld, who planted his foot on his opponent’s back and kicked him into the wrecked carriage. There was a scream, and a spattering of blood across Reynauld’s tabard as he plunged his sword downwards, and then a return to silence. The birds began to chirp once again after a moment, albeit hesitantly.

The crusader turned and moved to his comrade. What little color had been in Dismas’ face was draining away. Reynauld hoisted the smaller man over his shoulder and moved back to the carriage. “Do we have bandages, Ser?” he asked gruffly. “He is hurt badly and fading quickly...”

Walpole scurried about the broken cabin through the luggage, before coming upon several windings of gauze. The two held Dismas down as they gave his wound a makeshift patch, even as he thrashed and hollered from the pressure. “We’ll need to get you to a real doctor tomorrow, footpad,” Reynauld grumbled, brushing a sweat-soaked lick of dark hair from his fellow’s brow. He then looked back to Walpole. “Can we reach the end of the old road tonight if we continue on foot?”

Walpole frowned at that, stroking his jagged chin. “I suppose…” he murmured. “It would be better to continue on and brave whatever the weald has to throw at us then to remain here until tonight.” He pointed a slim gloved finger towards a small path. “Brigands have run of these lanes, so we’ll keep to the side path. If we follow that, the hamlet should be just ahead.”

Reynauld nodded and clasped Dismas’ bony hand, helping his new comrade back to his feet. The highwayman looked between the two and grimaced. “Thanks for that. Glad to not be dead,” he remarked coolly, casting a solemn glance at the coachman. The old man’s toothless and bloodied smile was frozen in death, and his eyes had darkened, making him resemble a husk despite the freshness of his expiration. “Pity about him.”

The three moved slowly along the winding dirt path of the old road, Walpole dragging his luggage through the mud behind him, and Reynauld holding up Dismas. With every step, the evening gloom seemed to expand, threatening to swallow them up as the sickly orange sun faded behind the trees. They went on in this way for about an hour, pausing only at the sound of rustling in the dark wood that surrounded them. They wrote it off as animals, but they spied no tracks on their way. As the trio advanced, graves appeared along the side path, with names of villagers. Many of the expiry dates were that very year, as recent as the past few months.

They stopped for another breather when they reached a clearing, dirt giving way to dead grass, the last curvature of the sun reappearing for a moment. Before them stretched the Hamlet, nestled on the coast of the country, surrounded by gnarled oaks and ash trees, and high above it was the Walpole family estate, a spiky black speck on the horizon. The heir smiled wanly and stretched out his arms. “Must be not much longer, friends,” he said smugly as he stepped further forward. The knight and vagabond flashed each other an uncomfortable look, both having spotted a hastily dismantled tent and doused fire pit just at the edge of the slope that would lead them down to the village. Reynauld spoke first, trying to call to his sworn lord without raising his voice too much. “Ser, it would be best if you –”

A shot rang out and Walpole stumbled and fell down into the grass, hands on his head. “An ambush!” hissed Dismas, suddenly full of adrenaline. He drew his dirk and pistol and darted forward, beady eyes whirling across the field of potential battle. Reynauld moved more slowly, as was his wont, unsheathing his longsword and lowering his visor once again. They were quiet but for the heavy breathing of the heir at Dismas’ feet, and the thump of Reynauld’s armored boots against the soft ground.

This calm before the storm lasted only a moment or two, but felt an eternity, abruptly ended with the screaming sound of another shot fired. Dismas narrowly side-stepped it and trained his gaze on its origin, a weaselly little man in a similar green cloak as the cutthroat they’d left dead earlier that day, sprinting from the direction of the desiccated tent and wielding a blunderbuss. The bullets sped past the highwayman and struck Reynauld, leaving black scorch marks on his armor, several of them sinking in between the plate and prompting him to let out a furious bellow. Dismas was already shuffling across the grass and levelling his pistol, when he saw, emerging from the wood behind the weasel gunman, a hulking brute of a man, his bare chest criss-crossed with scars not unlike those that patterned Dismas’ own face. In his thick-fingered hand he held a whip, which he lashed out at the highwayman and caught him square across the face, sending him sprawling.

The brigand gunman laughed and started to reload, approaching the collapsed and bleeding Dismas. “We saw that little crash of yours earlier,” he snickered. “Too bad about our boy, but he can take it up with you in the next life, I s’pose…” His giant companion let out a guffaw as he moved towards Walpole, raising his cat-o’-nine-tails once more.

The dark-skinned hand went sailing into the air, leaving a trail of blood and shattered bone, as Reynauld moved between them, bellowing, “I will strike a righteous blow, for the Light!”, as he levelled his sword once again. The brigand’s expression turned from malice to fear, lumbering away to grab his whip, barely able to contain himself as the bloody stump where his hand had been dripped onto the grass.

The bloodletter’s shifty companion looked up for a moment, mouth dropping open behind the kerchief that obscured his face, before letting out a scream of pain as he felt his Achilles tendon severed, collapsing to his knees a few feet from his target. Dismas sat up, blood flowing down his face from where the flesh had been stripped by the whip, and pulled his own kerchief down with his knife hand to expose a wicked grin. “You’re outmatched,” he scoffed, levelling his gun to aim at the forehead of his foe. For an instant, two faces flashed before his eyes - faces? more like death masks - and then he cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger. The gunman doubled over backward and lay still. Dismas stood there blinking for a moment, his mind a blur.

Whip back in hand, the bloodletter brute was preparing to strike again at Reynauld when he felt a pattering of small bullets strike his back; Dismas had fired off a batch of grapeshot and was staggering over to flank their ambusher. “Let’s send these vermin a message, eh, Glorious Crusader?” he snarled. Reynauld nodded curtly and swung his sword horizontally, cutting the large man across the belly. “The rightful owner has returned! Your kind is no longer welcome,” the knight barked, before raising the blade once more and bringing its hilt crashing down upon the brigand’s head. There was a tremendous crack as metal splintered skull, and then silence again, the two mercenaries panting and putting away their weapons.

Removing his helmet, Reynauld helped Walpole to his feet, wincing at the feeling of the bullets buried in his chest behind his armor. _A great help to us the noble heir was,_ the knight thought to himself bitterly, though recognizing the unfairness of such expectations on a man of city life, dedicated to economic affairs rather than the practical work of blood and war. _May the Light grant that the rest of this arrangement will not be so disastrous as this first day…_ “Are you alright, Ser?” he inquired, before looking up to see that Dismas was picking over the pockets of the slain, and rummaging through the tent. “What are you doing, rogue?” he snapped, releasing Walpole and stamping over to his fellow.

Reynauld’s eyes caught the sight of gold in Dismas’ gloved hands and frowned. “Robbing the dead, before you’ve even bandaged your wounds?” Dismas gave him a condescending glance and continued his business, and Reynauld’s face softened slightly at the sight of his face. “Light take me…they did a number on you.”

Dismas ignored the last comment, sliding the gold into a small coinpurse; he could have sworn he saw a gleam in Reynauld's eyes as he did so, but a second later it was gone. “I'm redistributing. From a lot of murderers and thieves,” he replied, turning to spit out some blood that had trickled onto his lips. “Did you read that contract we signed? We’re supposed to pool our gold for the whole army that bloodsucker expects to be raising; might as well get a head start. Our weekly pay's a pittance, you know that as well as I do.” The former thief gritted his teeth in pain as he rose back to his feet, hand sliding back to his stomach wound. “We’d better get a move on. It’ll be night soon and that’ll bring out the nastier types.” Reynauld tried to catch him by the shoulder before he walked off, but was deftly avoided.

It was another half an hour before the weary party arrived in the hamlet; thankfully no longer, or else the highwayman might have collapsed and required carrying the rest of the way. “Welcome to your new home, such as it is,” remarked Walpole playfully. His pleasantries were bizarre to the two mercenaries, who beheld a town that appeared to have been thoroughly gutted. Though there was some activity moving through its cobblestone streets, the state of the many buildings would belie that nobody had lived here in quite some time. Most were merely crumbling, and partly boarded up; some had been utterly demolished. A market that stood in the town center was utterly empty.

Before they could investigate further, a balding old man clad in long, filthy black-and-gold robes came rushing up the street towards them. Dismas went to draw his weapon but found his employer obstructing him. “Steady, Dismas,” Walpole murmured. “It’s merely the poor caretaker of my family’s estate…as I mentioned, he knew we were arriving tonight, but I fear that his long-standing duties may have…affected him.” Dismas and Reynauld exchanged a meaningful glance, but stood stock-still as the doddering old fellow rushed forward and embraced his former ward.

“Ah, Ser, so good to have you home,” he said gleefully, looking up over a crooked nose and fogged spectacles. “Things have changed for the worse around here, but now you’re back, it will all be put to right, won’t it!” He seemed to be locked in a permanent, toothy grin. “Your poor servant’s soul is gone, but it will be brought back now, won’t it?”

Walpole’s face lost its color and filled with dread at the sight of what the old man had been reduced to, and laid his spotless hands upon the caretaker’s wretched shoulders. “Tico, I assure you, I will see whatever evil has fallen over Ratcliffe, will be purged by the good men and women I am employing. You have my word.” He pulled the wretch up to his full height and grasped him firmly. “What can you tell me about what has happened here?”

Reynauld cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should get Dismas some medical attention, Ser,” he said pointedly. Walpole, having all but forgotten about his employee’s wounds, flickered his eyes between his new mercenaries and the caretaker, before whispering to the latter. The caretaker responded in kind, and Reynauld overheard snippets of phrases. _Secrets…letters…library..._

“Yes, quite right, Reynauld,” he replied, dusting his sharp clothing and flashing a tight, forced smile. “Tico here will escort the two of you to the hospital. I will…be in my grandfather’s library. You will see more of me in the next few days, but in the meantime – rest up, heal, and explore my former home, eh? The townsfolk appear to have turned in for the evening, but perhaps you will find some trace of them tomorrow.”

“Well, we're off to a roaring start, eh, brave knight?” Dismas laughed, before coughing up some blood, as the two of them followed the skittering caretaker down the cobblestone road. “Oh, bloody hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I haven't worked on any fiction in a long time, and am kind of using this as a way of easing back into it, so any feedback is greatly appreciated.
> 
> Next chapter should be up tomorrow.


	2. Week 1: The Symbol.

The door to the old athenaeum creaked open, and Walpole entered with a skeptical glance around the expansive room. It was clear that it had been left untouched by the townsfolk in the past few months, though that hardly surprised him. That had been true even before whatever disaster had overtaken the town; the library had been a generous gift on the part of his great-grandmother, yet the people had squandered it, preferring to wallow in their ignorance, and so his grandfather had brought it back into private hands several years ago. The local gentry had applauded that decision. Even with that foreknowledge, the darkness was startling, so overwhelming that his eyes were barely able to make out the dusty shelves of books that towered over the room. Walpole’s boots clacked across the tile floor towards the center, where he made out the vague shape of a desk.

He had pored over the letter from his grandfather Howard many times, yet it became no clearer in the details. When the caretaker had come to meet him after dropping off the two poor souls at the hospital, with the wart-fingered crones set to rip and tear and knit the flesh back into a more useful shape, he had not been any more forthcoming. What he had described more closely resembled a coalescence of standard countryside maladies than any nameless, abominable evil as described in the holy texts. Plants struck with rot in the wood, vagrants taking up residence in the ruins of the manor, unusual and unfriendly ocean life cropping up by the cove, the courtyard having sunk into disrepair and marsh, brigands on the prowl around the hamlet. None of this was beyond explanation. True, some details were harder to explain – like the squeals coming from the tunnel system below the hamlet, or the disappearances of townsfolk, or the grinning madness of the caretaker, which so resembled that of the carriage-driver whose blood now soaked the soil of the Old Road. But this was the task of the scientifically minded, to understand the order of the world, to penetrate behind the curtain of vulgar appearances and uncover its true operations.

And so, Lewis Walpole entered his grandfather’s re-appropriated library, ransacked by time and lack of care, searching for more answers. Howard had been a man of science, but clearly, judging by the letter, he was not beyond the influence of superstition peddled by the abbey. _Though perhaps not the same brand of superstition_ , Walpole thought to himself as he padded up to the table, fumbling with a candle he could faintly make out. Perhaps this same sort of irrationalism was the motivation for his grandfather’s castigation of Lewis’ decision to leave the ancestral home behind, in favor of pursuing a fresh and non-stagnating fortune on the market. To his grandfather, that was the stuff of the commoner, but for Lewis, it was the inevitable march of progress. When the letter had arrived, bearing the seal of his family and no ill will or barbs about his decision to sully himself with the coin of market exchange, he had assumed a cruel prank – but the contents had been jarring enough to inspire him to investigate further.

He struck a match and lit the candle, peering over the lengthy ash desk. At the end of it, draped over a solid oak chair, was an elegant red-and-black robe accented with gold buttons, in front of which were scattered, yellowing papers. Lewis paced to the other end of the table, reeling a little at the rank scent of the robe – something had decayed in it and only recently been removed. Hesitantly, he picked it up. Several human bones fell from between its draping folds, soaked with some putrid liquefied substance. As they fell, a flash of some unspeakable noise which was simultaneously quietly distant and obnoxiously glaring raced through the younger Walpole’s mind. He staggered and dug his nails into the wood of the table, rooted to the spot.

_Grandfather?_ was the thought that penetrated through this horrid sensation, and the sight of a pistol, spattering of blood, and an overturned plume and inkwell confirmed his suspicion, and steadied his hand upon the chair. So, it was as Tico had implied in his own correspondence – the old man was dead, and seemingly by his own hand. A pity for such a great man, from a family of such astounding history, to meet an end so rank and detestable – and after allegedly unleashing such calamity. Lewis had never much cared for his grandfather or his debaucheries, nor for useless sentiment, but he grasped the sense of tragedy that hung over this moment, and paused to take it in.

Still, it seemed that the old man had decided to still be of use even in death. There were piles and piles of notes in front of him, meticulous dark red and fluid handwriting scrawled across the jaundiced pages, with headings and titles like “On the Pelagic Nightmares in the Cove,” “Profligacy in Flesh,” “Forbidden Tannin.” Lewis estimated that there must be hundreds of pages waiting to be perused, to unlock the secrets of whatever foul works his grandfather had wrought from beneath the manner, if indeed the letter was true and not the ravings of a senile old man in the last stages of syphilitic degeneration. Regardless of its veracity, there were clearly plentiful problems for his newfound mercenaries to resolve – and the advertisements he had placed should be bringing in new hires within the week.

At the center, just behind the candle, was a solitary page, separated from the pile. Lewis shuffled away from the remains of his ancestor, peering at the paper curiously. It appeared to be a simplistic sketch at first, but when he held it up, the candle revealed its true image. The image’s core was black concave arc, with five jagged lines jutting out from it; but the light behind revealed a pale tracing within the arc. There were moments where it seemed to resemble the colossal porous roots of some ancient mythical tree, and then the flame would flicker, and it took on an eerie flesh-like quality. Lewis was repulsed by it, feeling his stomach knot at the sight – and yet, it took several minutes for him to wrench himself away, and begin lighting the candles that had long since been spent around the athenaeum’s cavernous structure.

But the image on the paper had been seared onto him; when he closed his eyes, it lingered in the voluntary blackness. And there was the whine again, ringing in his ears maddeningly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief interlude. 
> 
> Next chapter should come later this week; it's about 2/3 done.


	3. Week 2: The Usual Suspects.

_Hmm, hmmm, dadadada, hmm hmmm, DADADADA! Hmm…_

This discordant humming greeted Dismas as he awoke. Sitting up quickly, he cracked his head against the top bunk. Growling, he looked around for the source, assuming it must be one of the so-called “nurses.” Upon his arrival, he’d voiced a suspicion that if he were to ask around for their medical credentials, he’d come up short. They’d expressed their displeasure with this snub on his flesh, stitching him up roughly and then stuffing something up his nose that sent him off to the Land of Dreams for quite some time.

And that had been almost worse than being awake. Even the sultry or adrenaline filled ones had been disrupted by flashes of those two death masks that followed him around, or of other…stranger images, which at the time had sent his legs thrashing in the night in terror but now seemed impossible to recall. Not that he was trying very hard. 

He sat up, more slowly this time, and planted his spindly, hairy legs on the floor while casting the less-than-white bedsheet aside. “They undressed me?” he grumbled, shuddering at the thought. Thumbing crust from the corners of his eyes, he looked around. On the opposite side of the grey-tiled room was the knight, who’d refused to take the top bunk. Judging from his bandages and the snoring, they’d picked the bullets out of his chest and given him the same sedative.

Wearily, Dismas tiptoed to the foot of the bunk and yanked on his brown trousers and ratty black tunic. Looking down at his half-naked body, he saw that the scar across his belly had almost already healed, the stitches already looking ready to come out, and scratched his head in curiosity. _A gutting like that, it’s a miracle that I’m walking at all…_ he thought to himself, running a hand over his stomach slowly. But then he shrugged and finished getting dressed. _Guess I shouldn’t take what luck I can find for granted._ He bundled up in his red kerchief and furred leather coat, slid his dirk into its sheath, and holstered his flintlock.

For a moment, a trace of the old flight impulse surged through him, telling him to book it out of the hospital and back into the wood. _What for?_ he asked himself. _To have it out with more amateur-hour brigands? Or go back to that town where the magistrate was about to throw me in the clink if Young Wally hadn’t come along to pay me pennies a day? Light help me, I am a hopeless case. Nobody’s missing me back there._

As such, the impulse faded as quickly as it had arrived, and he turned on his heel and took steps deeper into the shoddy brick building, pattering past the rows of bunks and tables full of rusty medical supplies. Some beds were occupied, but their residents seemed to be rather keen on remaining under the covers, out of sight; more than once, Dismas thought he saw red fluid seeping through the sheets and quickly averted his eyes. He followed the tune that was echoing quietly throughout the halls, till he reached a winding stone staircase with a bannister and headed upward.

At the top stood a wooden door, half-open to a circular room full of wooden cabinets and metal trays and glass beakers. Puttering about this room was a raven-haired woman, roughly his own height, clad in a long black hooded cloak accented with sickly greens and dirty browns, as well as a number of unpleasant looking stains. Lying on the counter nearby was the mask of a plague doctor, a haunting white visage with a hooked beak and black glass eyes. The woman was humming as she transferred various unnaturally colored liquids from one vial to the next, before she heard Dismas push the door further inward and spun around.

“Ah, you are awake!” she said in a charmingly bouncy accent, grey eyes flashing with glee and darting towards him. Before he could shake loose of her, she was gripping him by the hips, putting her face up to his stomach for some unfathomable reason. “Any trouble with the wound this morning? I can take another look at it…” He recoiled and attempted to bat her off.

“Oi, don’t go fiddling with it,” he snapped. “Wait…that was you who patched me up? Not the nurses?” At that she scoffed and skittered away to the table, ransacking it frantically.

“Those crones? Of course not. Well, they patched you, but not particularly well; they certainly don’t have the power to knit flesh back together like that. I suppose they have a handle on minor maladies, but this whole building is just an addendum to the abbey next door. It’s a racket for proselytization, a mission with a body count. I suppose that’s redundant…” she smirked, placing a hand on her chin. Dismas blinked in bewilderment.

“I, on the other hand,” she added haughtily, “am a trained medical professional. I have no agenda but the advancement of the cause of science. And I nearly had a piece of paper to prove it too, if it weren’t for those fools at the university, feeble-minded…” Her speech trailed off into angry mutterings, prompting Dismas to cock an eyebrow. But before he could inquire further, she spun back around, boldly holding up two different round bottles in her hands. Both were full of a bright green, but where one bubbled with maliciously swirling gases, the other had a soothing aura to it. Both stunk to high heaven, though. “These are my great achievements,” she said proudly. Dismas noticed now that her true face was nearly as bird-like as the mask she wore – jagged and angular with a long pointed nose and gaunt cheeks. “This one giveth, as in the case of your stomach wound,” she said, nodding to the glowing one, before fixing her eyes on the darker strain. “And this one…taketh away.”

Dismas rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Well, thanks. For fixin’ me up, and not takin’ away. I won’t lie, thought I might be headed for fire and brimstone even before I got into town. Though, if my first impression is anything to go on, might not be far off on that guess…” He moved inward and leaned against the counter, inadvertently upturning a tray of vials and snatching most of them out of the air. One thin beaker full of some purple substance, however, smashed against the door and quickly ate through it. His lip curled at the stink of it and cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but the woman looked rather proud.

“Right then…so you’re the town physic? The Mad Scientist of Ratcliffe?”

She chuckled at that. “Goodness, no. I’m as new in town as you are; newer, in fact. I got in just this morning, and from what I understand you arrived last evening? And also, according to the rumor mill, I’m here for the same reason as you and your superstitious friend downstairs.” Her grey eyes gleamed, and a tight-lipped smile came over her face as she enunciated the words carefully. “To cure this land of its sickness.”

Dismas took a seat at the table. “Ah, so not the Mad Scientist of Ratcliffe, but the Mad Scientist of the Rat-Bastard Mercenaries, then? You got a shorter name?” The doctor sat down across from him, and didn’t answer for several moments, eyeing him up, before she let it slip.

“Francoise.”

Dismas nodded. “Francoise… ‘The free one.’ Enviable name.” He jutted out a grubby paw to shake, which was graciously accepted. “Dismas is mine. I’m just a poor candlemaker, dunno why they even hired me here. Charmed to make your acquaintance,” he grinned. “Are you on the job, or shall we go grab a drink?”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “It’s 10 in the morning, Dismas.” But he met her gaze coolly, throwing up his hands as if to say, _What’s your point?_ And after a moment she smirked and rose, making a point to grab her mask before they departed. “Alright then, to the tavern.”

*

It may have been the morning, but the fog that had settled over the hamlet in the night certainly didn’t grant that impression. Reynauld was marching through the town, helmet under one arm, his free hand up to his brow to avoid the reflection of the hazy sun through the fog, and to keep an eye out for craven highwaymen.

When he awoke, he’d noticed that his traveling companion had vanished. The first thought he’d had was that the man had died in the night, and had his corpse and belongings rapidly purged. Reynauld had momentarily mourned his loss, pitying that his sinful character would now go unredeemed. But upon reflection, it seemed more probable that the former footpad had been spooked by his near-death experience and taken flight as soon as he had the strength to move. Reynauld could hardly blame him, considering the disaster of their first day on this fresh crusade, but that was not for either of them to decide. They had made an agreement with the young Walpole, and dangerous or not, they were honor-bound to follow it.

He came to a halt in front of the central statue of the hamlet, a great stone slab in the shape of a man, with many a creeping vine wrapped around it and threatening to conquer. The elder Walpole, he presumed. Reynauld grimaced at the sight; even carved from stone, he looked stern and unpleasant, not unlike Reynauld’s own father, but what really perturbed him were the eyes. The brow had been carved in such a way that his eyes were barely perceptible even looking up, resembling an empty void that only gave his stern visage a more threatening character. Not unlike the dead carriage-driver or the caretaker, now that he thought about it.

His company in the town center were a number of market women overseeing carts of foul-smelling fruit and fish, and wooden stalls full to bursting with undesired handicrafts. Reynauld felt very conspicuous, since he was broad and imposing and clad in plate armor surrounded by peasants in sackcloth, slowly bustling around, shoulders slumped. It didn’t help that he was significantly larger than the malnourished folk of the hamlet, who would recoil as he passed by. But that was the necessary tool of constant vigilance, of total dedication to the Light and its war against foul-natured things. He had refined his body, donned the tabard of the Crusade, and made it his life’s work to seek out the evil things that hid in the dark and scuttled about. Hence his current preoccupation with the status of Dismas.

There was no sign of him. Reynauld starting pacing his way back, past the hospital and towards the abbey, ascending the winding stone steps and ignoring the stares of passers-by. At the summit of the staircase, just in front of the wooden door and dusty stained-glass windows, he turned on his heel and took a seat, setting his helmet down beside him. Reynauld swept his gaze across the village and took its decaying state, curling his lip in contempt and disappointment. He had seen many a town reduced to rubble on the Crusade – some he had even been responsible for. Those were not entirely unlike the horizon currently stretched out before him. His thoughts began to stray towards those demolished villages and weeping, bloodied refugees, before he returned his strict focus to what was in front of him. _Regret is sin_ , he remarked internally. That was his mantra these days, keeping him grounded whenever he got lost in memories.

Many of the buildings, such as the old bank and granary, lay in total ruin. Most of the others lay only in partial ruin. There was the hospital, and its sanitarium annex with bars on the windows, which looked even more ominous from this peak. _Hopefully I’ll never have the misfortune to see the inside of that._ Across the street were two stone buildings with an anvil and crossed swords hanging on their respective signs – the blacksmith and the training guild, no doubt. Reynauld made a mental note to visit them at first convenience. In front of them was the statue he’d just visited, as well as a run-down wagon whose wheels almost certainly were no longer turning. Not far from this last sight was the tavern, The Red Hook, which most of the population seemed to be streaming in and out of; the sounds of drink and brawling and uproar echoed from it in stark contrast to the grim silence that overwhelmed the rest of the hamlet. Behind the tavern were several carriages, just like the one now rotting in the woods with the driver, and beyond that lay a small stone bridge which faded into a dirt path.

To the left, this path led back to where they’d arrived from, a steep slope up to the site of yesterday’s late afternoon ambush. To the right…Reynauld knew that to the right was a loop which went along the coast, and would lead them up to the Walpole Estate and its surrounding areas. The estate itself was visible behind the Abbey, perched on the Cliffside and jutting out along the skyline like a brimstone steeple. Looking upon its grandeur sent a shudder up his spine.

As did the hand which suddenly appeared on his shoulder. He looked up, startled; standing over him was a stout woman, wearing a brown hooded robe padded with plate along the shoulders and chest. Under her arm was a thick red book, which Reynauld recognized as the Lightbound Dogmatics, and hooked to her belt was a short but brutal looking mace. Beneath her hood was a white head covering, out of which a few strands of blond hair were sticking out. She was giving him a disapproving glance. “Excuse me, Ser, but this is an Abbey, not a place of rest,” she said, with a bit of a lisp and a sharp accent, pointing a plump finger towards the Red Hook. “You can try your luck there. But I will not allow vagrants to sully this place of Light, you understand?”

Reynauld rose and turned, preparing to reply modestly, when the contempt on her round face was rewoven into cheerfulness. “Oh, you are a Crusader!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing from his tabard to his face. “My mistake, brother, I assumed you were one of the disreputable mercenaries I heard the dreadful owner of the estate hired. You must come in, please, see the Abbey.” The woman bustled back between the wooden doors, which stood slightly ajar, and Reynauld followed her inside, looking befuddled.

 _It must have been a beautiful place of worship once_ , he thought to himself grimly. _Now it is as rotten as its surroundings._ The stained-glass windows and copies of the Lightbound Dogmatics were caked with dust, and the wooden pews were ajar. There was an altar in the center on which sat some incense, anointed on a small purple pillow, and that was the only sign of life within. The hooded woman had made her way back towards this altar, snuffing out the incense with her thumb and forefinger. “Come, speak with me,” she beckoned, taking a seat in a pew. “My name is Junia.” Reynauld slid in beside her and nodded politely.

“I am Reynauld de Montaigne,” he said. “Light bless you, sister.” He surveyed the room some more, frowning as he did so. “So, you are a leader of this parish?”

Junia shook her head, letting her hood down behind her, though she kept her white head covering firmly fastened. “No, no,” she said. “I arrived this morning. I am, it begrudges me to say…one of those mercenaries I mentioned, in a way.” Reynauld looked at her curiously, but she continued before he could pose a question. “Truly. I left my vestal order under positive terms after we were deployed along the northern border during the Crusade. I am a free agent, and wish to continue my service to the Light in the best way I know how…And what of you, brother? What is your business in Ratcliffe?”

“The very same,” he responded, to her surprise. “So then, your order must have been on the north at the same time that my men and I were defending the Light-Keep…” Flames danced inside his eyes when he blinked, reopening to the sight of filthy stone and wood. “You were healers? Warriors?”

“Some of both,” she answered. “We were the security, and the physics. And we kept the Flame burning, to bring hope to the villages there.” She added this clause in a rushed tone, as if to assuage some objection of Reynauld’s. They sat in silence together for a moment, watching the lingering smoke from the incense dance upward towards the roof. “To be frank, I am glad that you are with me in the employ of Walpole. The other woman that I rode into the hamlet with is…of questionable character. It will be good to have a fellow believer to balance out her sickening views.”

Reynauld, against his own judgment, smirked at that. “I think I understand what you mean,” he said. “On that note, a weaselly little man with a red kerchief hasn’t come through here seeking penance, has he?”

*

“You didn’t!”

Dismas laughed uproariously and raised his pint to Francoise, who was sipping coolly at her own. “I did,” she said meekly, but with a wry grin. “She asked if I cared to recite the verses with her and I said I had no interest in poetry.” The Red Hook was bustling with activity. The mustachioed and brawny bartender had been around the room all morning, there were constant jeers, cheers, and tears coming from the gambling tables in the room behind the bar, and clients and workers were flowing up and down the stairs with nary a breather. Francoise, upon their arrival, had hypothesized a correlation between the town’s general misery and this hotbed of vice, and Dismas had replied that she should quit pontificating and start drinking. They’d been there about forty minutes; Francoise was only starting her second drink, conscious of how early it was, but Dismas was packing them away.

“Hell, do you know how many times I thought about mouthing off to the vestals when I was in school? Used to keep me up at night, thinking of ways I could twist the Dogmatics into some sick turn o’ phrase, and then just…” He slugged the air with one hand to punctuate this point. “But I never did. I was chicken in those days, afraid my mother would clobber me after the vestals got through with doin’ the same.”  

He leaned in close to his companion. “So, I take it you don’t believe in all that? The Light, miracles and damnation, judges and saints?” He had the good sense to keep his voice hushed while saying that – you never knew with these rural locales.

Francoise shook her head carefully, grey eyes flashing around the room as she spoke in a correspondingly low tone. “I believe in science, dear. Contrary to what feeble minds peddle, that does not mean I believe only in what I can observe with my five senses, or that I ascribe to a dead dogma that merely parallels the dogma of my unfortunately superior travelling companion, dressed up in the cloak of reason rather than the vestments of faith. It means that I must approach the world with a critical lens at all times. At the entrance to science as at the entrance to hell, the demand must be made: here all mistrust must be abandoned, and here must perish every craven thought.”

She set her beer on the counter and screwed up her mouth, giving Dismas the side-eye. “Did you hear about the earthquake near the Vineyards? Up north?” He gave a quick nod, and she continued. “I was there when it happened. Tore apart the ground, cracked my university’s walls, killed several hundred. I was a first-year, studying medicine. Lucky to survive. What about the last plague? That struck as I was finishing up my degree. Have you seen a dead body before, Dismas? Of course you have, what am I asking...Well, I have always been comfortable with the dead. It’s why I decided to be a doctor. So hundreds of corpses, some of them quite small, buried under rubble, burned to death, drowned in a shipwreck, these do not linger with me. But the rationalizations that survivors and the uninjured concoct…that I cannot comprehend. I deal in flesh and blood, not abstractions. The benevolent Light, the Creative Spark that brought the universe into being – is supposed to watch over us, no? Protect mankind, send us warriors and saints and judges to ensure its will? Yet all I see is destruction. Conquerors, sinners, fiends. Let the vestal and the knight keep their delusions – humanity will triumph over the Light.”

Francoise realized that her voice had been escalating in pitch and winced, but nobody had really noticed – the clatter of the dice and dreary songs of the drinkers were much too loud. Dismas was stone-faced, though she wasn’t sure why. “Well, here’s to the dead,” he said, raising his glass. “For making a lot more sense than the rest of us.” He stood up and slipped on his coat, which he’d placed on his seat to ward off splinters. “I’m going out back to take a piss, I’ll be back,” he added gruffly, before sidling around the back of the bar, out of Francoise’s sight.

She sighed and pushed her drink away. Dismas was a charming conversational companion, but she was aware that her education could be intimidating. Or perhaps she’d offended him with her heresy? It didn’t seem likely, judging by how he’d phrased his question, but Lightbound guilt was a common phenomenon even amongst those who had lapsed. _I’ll have to apologize_ , she thought to herself. _How odd._

_Still…it’s nice to have met someone that isn’t so…straight-laced._

She heard the sound of someone new entering the bar, and turned to look. Her nostrils flared in exasperation at the sight – speaking of the devil, it was the knight and the vestal, Junia. The hooded woman waddled behind him as he stepped inside, a hush falling over the front half of the tavern. They approached the bar quickly, and then Junia’s gaze landed on Francoise. _Delightful._

“That’s the heretic woman,” she scowled. “The doctor. They should take her license, frankly.” Francoise turned on the stool and laced her fingers together, ignoring Junia and locking eyes with Reynauld.

“How are your wounds, crusader?” she asked politely. “I regret that I didn’t get a chance to look at them, your companion’s gutting provided more than enough work for me. Clearly those new muskets are nothing to scoff at.” Though Junia continued to stare daggers at her, Reynauld looked more bewildered than zealous.

“You healed Dismas? Perhaps you know where I can find him. Ah, speak of the devil,” he added, as Dismas sauntered back into the front room and gave a cheery grin to his travelling companion.

“’Lo there, Reynauld, what brings you into this hive of scum and villainy?” he smirked. “Did you fancy a drink and a game of chance? Or was it a quick lay?” A wicked gleam appeared in his eyes when they landed on Junia. “Ah, I suppose you’re all set on that end. Mornin', schoolmarm. I hear Francoise shut you up quick.”

Junia snarled at him and took a step forward, but Reynauld held out a gauntleted hand in her path. “We were looking for you,” he replied curtly. “When you weren’t in the hospital, I assumed cowardice; I suppose I shouldn’t have discounted other possible vices. Really, a tavern this early in the morning? We could be getting deployed today for all we know.”

Dismas took a menacing step towards the knight, glaring up at him. “Come off it, you don’t need to be his lapdog all the time. Walpole won’t send us out after we nearly got killed yesterday. You and the vestal should unbunch your drawers.” Reynauld bristled, but as the two squared off, Francoise let out an uncomfortable cough and pointed towards the doorway. There stood the old caretaker, Tico, still with his mad grin on his face.

“Master Walpole wishes to see the four of you in the library,” he said, lacing his crooked fingers together. “Your first mission is today.”

To the other three, the livid expression on Dismas’ face was nothing short of marvelous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francoise's remark ("At the entrance to science...") is a quote from Karl Marx in his preface to A Critique of Political Economy, and her attitude on the earthquake is derived from the 1755 Lisbon earthquake that troubled many Enlightenment philosophers like Voltaire.
> 
> Hope that this chapter is enjoyable; I had fun writing it but it took a while. Next one will get us to the real meat of things, but I liked having these characters briefly bounce off each other before getting thrust into the action.


End file.
